


Born to Run

by lookninjas



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worse the situation becomes, the more Blaine feels the need to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to Run

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written shortly after Blaine was introduced (as I'm sure those of you who've checked the posting date have guessed), so there's a lot in here that's no longer accurate to canon. But I do think some of the characterization rings truer than I might expect for a fic this old. 
> 
> It isn't edited much from the original, but I did strip out about 80% of the italics.

There's this thing that Kurt does (or, at least, this thing that he's done every time Blaine's gotten to sit down with him, which is actually only two times), where he tilts his head a little to the right and stares at something on the tabletop, like he's gathering up his courage. Then his eyes settle on Blaine, and he takes a deep breath. "Can I ask you a question?" His voice is quiet, almost timid. It kind of makes Blaine want to tell him everything, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if Kurt was doing it on purpose. It would probably still work, though.

"Sure," Blaine says, and smiles as reassuringly as he knows how. He really needs to take Wes's advice and start practicing these things. "You can ask me anything."

Kurt flushes a little bit at the tops of his cheekbones, stares at the table again, and takes a deep breath. He taps his fork against the side of his lunch tray. It's funny how those trays are everywhere. Even at Dalton, they're the same. The plates are nicer, the silverware too, but heavy plastic trays are universal. "When did you know you had to leave your old school?"

Blaine chews the inside of his cheek; he watches Kurt tap his fork against the side of his tray. It's not that he doesn't want to talk about it. Even if he didn't, he'd feel obliged to share, after Kurt's told him so much. But he _wants_ to tell the story, too. He kind of almost needs to. Only he doesn't know where to start.

"Never mind," Kurt says, too quickly, and sets his fork down. "If you don't want to, it's --"

Blaine has to reach out and cover Kurt's hand with his, keep him pinned down so he can't run away. "It's not..." Blaine laughs, and knows he sounds nervous. He _is_ nervous, although he couldn't say exactly why. "I just... I haven't talked about it in a while."

Kurt doesn't say anything, but Blaine thinks he sees something in Kurt's face, in the softness of his expression and the light of his eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or maybe he's just imagining it; it really doesn't matter. All that matters is that he says something, anything. He pulls back a little bit and lets his hand slide away from Kurt's before anyone else in the cafeteria can see them touching. It doesn't bother him so much, but Kurt's been through enough to last them both a lifetime.

Blaine takes a deep breath, and starts.

"I broke my foot."

*

He's not really thinking about much of anything as he runs down the street. He tends to not think very much at all this early in the morning. In the afternoon, sure; if it's been a bad day (and they usually are), he'll lace up, head out, and go for miles just _thinking_ about it all, every stupid comment, every stupid look, until he's too exhausted to be angry anymore. But right now, the damp pavement is glistening under the streetlights and the sound of his footsteps is like the beating of his heart, steady and reassuring. It's peaceful. It's home.

Blaine catches himself rolling onto the outside of his right foot and pulls his attention inward and down for a second, trying to push off with his big toe on every stride. It hurts a little bit, but that's not new. It's been hurting on and off since the end of cross-country season. He'll have to tape it up before he goes to school. Put some ice on it, if he has the time.

Really, he should probably take a week off. It's not just his foot; his whole body could use the rest. But then, this is how he rests. When the streets are cold and dark, when it's just him and the sound of his footsteps, he can relax. He can breathe. And he needs that more than anything, so he pushes past the other stuff -- the occasional twinges in his left knee, the stitch in his side, the dull ache of his right foot. It's nothing he can't handle.

There's a reason why he runs long distance. He's not cut out for sprinting, for intense bursts of speed. He was made to take the abuse. And that's what he does. What he's always done.

He shakes off the thought (it's too early in the morning for thinking anyway), turns around, and heads for home. His foot's really starting to hurt now, and he's going to have to pick up the pace if he wants to get an ice pack on it before he has to go to school. Or an ice bath might be better, easier than trying to strap something onto the top of his foot. There's a full tray of ice cubes in the freezer; he could dump them in a mixing bowl, top it off with cold water and just soak his foot for a while. That would work.

There's no real warning when it happens -- just a few seconds of tightness, like he's about to cramp up, and then a popping, something he feels rather than hears. Not popping, though, not exactly. Splintering, maybe. Splintering sounds right. He actually laughs at that (it's not really funny, but he laughs anyway), because the pain hasn't set in. It takes a few more seconds for that to happen, a few more steps, and then his foot comes down and it bolts through his foot and up his leg, sharp and intense and so deeply _wrong_ that he staggers, almost falls down. His eyes immediately flood with tears, and his breath starts to come out in little gasps. "Ah. Ah. Ah." Like when women in movies give birth, that kind of sound.

It's bad. He knows it's bad. Hospital bad, probably. He can't even really put weight on that foot without wanting to scream so loud that he wakes up the entire street, and there's no amount of tape, no amount of ice, that's going to fix this. He should probably stop moving. He should probably call someone. Except his phone is at his house and he doesn't really know who to call anyway and part of him keeps thinking that if he just gets home, he can fix this. He can make this not be happening. He just has to be at home to do it.

So he keeps hobbling along, letting his left foot do most of the work, balancing awkwardly on the heel of the right. It's not really running -- _walking_ is probably too good a word for it -- and every time his shoe hits the pavement, he has to stifle a sob. But he keeps moving.

He's pretty sure he doesn't know how to stop anymore.

*

"I tried to stick it out," Blaine says. "I really did. It just... I didn't have anything else to fall back on, I guess. Things weren't all that great at home, really, especially since my sister left, and..." He shrugs. "I don't know. If I'd been able to just keep running, I might have been able to handle everything. Without it, I kind of... fell apart."

Kurt cocks his head a little to the side and looks at Blaine, just looks at him for a while. He's not backing away in an _Oh shit, this guy is crazy_ kind of way, which Blaine figures is probably a pretty good place to start. "And that was when you transferred?"

Blaine nods. "My sister'd heard of Dalton; she thought it might be a good fit for me. I figured it couldn't be any worse. At least I wouldn't have to worry about my crutches being stolen five times a day, right? And it's been... It's been good. I mean, just having the Warblers and everything -- my old school barely had any kind of music program, and I wasn't a part of it anyway. I'd never really sung in public before, so that was..."

"You never sang?" Kurt's eyebrows rise up almost to his hairline. There's something really flattering about that. "Really? _You?_ Wow, okay."

"I mean, I sang in the shower, and in my room," Blaine says, laughing. "Or running, sometimes, when I'd get settled into my pace and my breathing evened out. But not like that. It's been... It's been challenging. I've had to learn a lot. It's good, though. I really do like it."

"But do you ever miss... well, this?" Kurt asks. He doesn't explain what _this_ is, but Blaine's pretty sure he can figure it out from Kurt's little shrug, the way his eyes sweep nervously across the rapidly emptying cafeteria.

"Sometimes," Blaine admits, leaning back in his chair and looking around the room. In the corner, a kid in a wheelchair is haranguing a tall, broad-shouldered girl about Truffaut. A boy in skinny jeans and a neon hoodie steals his girlfriend's tray and moonwalks towards the garbage can with it. A group of cheerleaders in red and white uniforms are giggling as they make their way towards the door. It's probably not any different than his old school in Columbus, but right now, it seems so much better. "I almost came here, actually," he adds. "Instead of Dalton. My sister was pretty set on me going there, but... This was an option."

"Really," Kurt says, and it's one eyebrow up this time instead of both. There's something about the dubious expression on his face that makes Blaine intensely nervous.

"I mean, since it wasn't great at home... Not that it was that bad, just not great, and I kind of thought maybe just living with my sister instead of with my mom or dad would, maybe..." Kurt's brow is furrowed, and it occurs to Blaine a little bit too late that it's kind of early for him to start explaining the (sometimes literal) insanity of his family situation. "She didn't seem to think it'd be enough, though. I do stay with her, for vacations and over the summer, but the rest of the year I'm at Dalton."

There are about a million questions in Kurt's eyes; Blaine can practically see him flipping through each one, then discarding them. "Your sister was probably right," Kurt says, finally, looking back down at his tray.

Blaine bites his lip. The thing is, he never expected this situation, the bullying and everything, to turn so sharply into... well, whatever it's turned into. And he's not entirely sure that it's his fault that it happened, but it's his fault that it happened now, and that's almost as bad. "Kurt," he says, quietly, and waits for Kurt to look up, actually meet his eyes, before continuing. "Listen. I screwed up, when I told you to call that guy out."

"You didn't--"

"I did," Blaine says, cutting off Kurt's (admittedly feeble, but heartwarming) protest. "Because I'm not totally cool with the way I transferred, and I kind of... But honestly, I probably stuck things out longer than I should have. And it didn't end up that well. It wasn't horrible, but..." He sighs. "I know you're tough. You're tougher than me. But I'm also pretty sure you're smarter than I am. Smart enough to know how much you can take, and not push any further than that." Kurt just stares at him, wide-eyed. "I'm an idiot, Kurt. I mean, really -- you have to be pretty stupid to try to keep running on a broken foot, right? So don't take me too seriously. Half the time I don't even know what I'm saying."

They're silent together for a long time; Kurt stares at his tray, and Blaine stares at... well, at Kurt. His heart is pounding, and part of him just wants to bolt away from the table, and run until his rapid heartbeat makes some sort of sense, meshes with the movement of his body and the pace of his breathing. He forces himself to sit still, to wait.

The bell rings.

"I don't think I'm quite there," Kurt says, quietly. He doesn't look up from his tray. "Yet. I'm not there yet. But I don't know... I don't know what's going to happen now."

He sounds absolutely fucking terrified, and Blaine's stomach drops a little bit.

"Listen, I'm here all the time," Blaine says. "You know, visiting my sister and everything. If you wanted to hang out or talk... It doesn't have to be serious stuff. It can just be... you know, whatever."

When Kurt's eyes meet his, they're red-rimmed. But there's also this small, shy smile on his face, so maybe things aren't totally hopeless. "That sounds good. Thanks." Then he's pushing back his chair, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and picking up his tray. When he stands up, Blaine does, too. "I have to get to class," Kurt says. "But I'll call you? Later?"

"Any time," Blaine says. He kind of wants to offer to walk Kurt to his next class, but he's pretty sure it'd be weird. Even if it wasn't weird to Kurt, per se -- well, it's obvious what most of the students here would think about things, and he doesn't want Kurt to have to deal with that. So he settles for trailing along behind as Kurt disposes of his tray and his dishes, and makes his way out of the cafeteria.

"Thanks for coming today," Kurt says, when they're in the hallway. "Really. Even if it didn't quite go the way we might have wanted."

Blaine tries the reassuring-smile thing again. It feels a bit more natural this time. "No problem," he says. "Any time you need me, Kurt. I'm serious."

Kurt gives him another smile, this one a little bit stronger than the first. "I will. I promise." Then he turns, tightening his grip on his bag, and heads off down the hall.

For a few seconds, Blaine watches him go. He wonders what it'd be like, walking down the halls with Kurt, in some other life where he's not wearing a blue blazer and a striped tie, a life where he actually belonged here. But he doesn't, and it's probably kind of creepy for him to stand and stare as Kurt hurries away from him.

Sighing, he turns around and heads for the exit, digging in his pocket for his cellphone. He slides it open and sends out a quick text to his sister.

_U home?_

By the time he's through the doors, his phone is already vibrating in his hand. He doesn't need to look at the screen to know who's calling. "Hey, Cass."

"Shouldn't you be at school?" she asks, sounding more worried than irritated. She always sounds worried, though. He can't tell if that's her natural state, or if it's just that he's got that effect on her.

"I kind of..." He runs his fingers nervously through his hair, messing up its heavily-gelled smoothness. Not that it matters, really. It'll be a total wreck by the time he gets back to Westerville anyway. "It's a long story."

There's a pause. "I really shouldn't encourage you," she mutters. Despite himself, he cracks a smile. "I take it you're in Lima?"

"Just leaving the school," he says, and switches his phone to his other hand so he can rummage through his pocket for his keys.

"This _is_ a long story," Cassidy says. "All right, truant. I'll see you in a few minutes."

Blaine unlocks the door of his car and slides in. “I mean, if you have to get to work,” he says, and kind of wants to kick himself for it even as he goes on talking. “I don’t want to --”

Cassidy sighs into the phone. Loudly. “Stop,” she says. “If something’s bothering you, I want to know what it is. My shift doesn’t start until seven; that’s plenty of time. Just get your butt over here.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, meekly. It’s funny, how she can make him feel better by yelling at him. He still hasn’t figured out how she does that. “Thanks.”

"You're welcome,” Cassidy says. “Now hang up before you start your car. I do _not_ want you on the phone while you're driving."

He's tempted to tease her about being overprotective, but right now he doesn't have the heart for it. "See you in a few," he says, and slides the phone shut.

*

He's _not_ going to cry.

Blaine swallows thickly, looking around the room. It's not bad; honestly, it's probably a lot nicer than his old room back in Columbus. It's definitely better than sleeping on a futon in the corner of Cassidy's one-room efficiency in Lima. But at least then he was in Cassidy's apartment; at least he had her there with him. Even when she was at work, or off yelling at school administrators or taking care of all the custody stuff, he had her old race bibs on the wall, her battered poster of Steve Prefontaine, bits and pieces of her everywhere to make him feel at home. This room might be nice, but it's empty, just white walls and boxes on the floor. He will never feel at home here.

But that doesn't mean he's going to cry.

He wipes stubbornly at his eyes, and manages to fix a smile on his face as Cassidy walks back into the room, stamping snow from her boots and brandishing a rolled-up poster in her hand. She produces a fresh pack of poster putty from the pocket of her coat, and makes a beeline for the nearest wall.

"Okay," Blaine says, laughing. "What are you doing?"

"I just figured," Cassidy says, and she's not laughing. She sounds like she's about to cry, which is absolutely horrifying, because if Cassidy starts crying, Blaine is going to lose it and he is not supposed to be crying right now. "Since I'm not going to be here to keep an eye on you or anything. You need to have someone, Blaine." She finishes applying putty to the back of the poster, turns it right-side out and sticks it to the wall. "So I'm giving you Pre."

And there he is on the wall of Blaine's new room, Steve Prefontaine in his University of Oregon singlet, frozen midstride just seconds before the tape broke across his chest, seconds before victory. Cassidy's old track coach had given her that poster after her sophomore year, scribbling a note on the corner of it, just for her. _For Cassidy, who has more guts than anyone_. Blaine can still remember standing in her room, watching her put it up. He remembers the way she'd smiled, the way it lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. He's not totally sure, but sometimes he thinks that's the day that made a runner out of him.

And now Cassidy is turning towards him, and she's smiling like she did that day, even though her eyes are filled up with tears. "For Blaine," she says. "Who's got more guts than me."

Blaine breaks down. Because he loves her so much, and she's done so much for him, and he's so scared right now and it makes him feel horrible, ungrateful. He pushes up until he's standing on his left foot (the right still firmly wrapped up in its aircast, throbbing quietly as he rests just a little weight on his toes) and hops awkwardly forward until he's close enough to collapse into her, burying his face in her shoulder and letting her hold him up as he sobs.

"You have to call me every day," she whispers, her voice unsteady, and he can't take it; he _hates_ hearing her cry, so he pulls her closer. "Not just when you think you need to, or when you can't stand it anymore. Every day. Leave a message if I don't answer. But I have to know what you're doing, Blaine. You have to talk to me."

"I promise," he says, barely even able to get the words out. "I promise, I promise, I promise."

“I hate to go,” Cassidy admits, her arms tightening around him. “I really hate... I hate leaving you.”

Blaine swallows hard and forces himself to push her away a little. “It’s okay, Cass. Really. I’ll be fine.”

She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ve heard that one before.” There’s no bite to her words, though, not this time. “I just... And you’ve got all these boxes, and you’re on crutches, and...”

“Cass.” Blaine has to work hard to keep his voice steady. “It’s going to take you two hours to get back to Lima. That’s barely enough time for you to get ready to work. Just go. I’ve got this.”

Cassidy looks at him for a few seconds, and he tries to stand steady, tries to keep the tears out of his eyes. Finally, she gives in, pulling him close one more time. “I love you,” she says, quietly. “Be good. Stay out of trouble. _Call me_.”

“I promise,” Blaine says. “I love you, too.” There’s a lot more he wants to say, about how amazing it is that she’s done all this for him, arranged everything possible to keep him safe and happy, how he will never be able to make up for this. But the words catch in his throat. “Drive carefully,” he says, instead.

Cassidy laughs, shaking her head at him. “Stop it,” she says. “I’m the overprotective one in this family.”

“Get out, Cassidy,” he says, forcing a grin. “I’m _busy_.”

“Love you,” she says, on her way to the door. “Brat.”

He wants to tell her he loves her back, but he’s too busy trying not to cry any more. So he just stands by this desk that’s not his desk, in this room that’s not his room, and watches her walk away.

*

Kurt's family is just driving away as Blaine jogs back up to the dorms. He'd forced himself out on the roads before Kurt was due to arrive, knowing that if he was around, he'd want to help, to be there with Kurt through the whole process. And that wasn't his place. Kurt needed to do this with his family, have that little extra time alone with them. As much as Blaine might want to help, he knew that his hanging around would only have made things worse.

So he left. He ran. For two hours, it was nothing but the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing, and the constant, maddening loop of his thoughts. The memory of Kurt crying during their last conversation, only three days ago, was still perfectly fresh in his mind. He'd sounded so guilty; that was the thing that absolutely killed Blaine. Like it was all his fault.

 _I just feel like such a coward right now,_ he'd said.

And Blaine knew, he just _knew_ , that he'd put that thought in Kurt's head. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if Kurt never wanted his help ever again; wouldn't blame Kurt if the two of them never so much as spoke. He'd given himself thirteen long, slow miles to come to terms with that idea, and thought he was doing relatively well by the time he saw Dalton on the road ahead of him.

But apparently he'd been wrong, because the moment he sees Kurt standing on the sidewalk by the parking lot, looking absolutely lost and alone, his stomach lurches horribly and he immediately slows down to a walk, hoping that Kurt will turn around and walk inside without ever seeing him. When Kurt doesn't move right away, still staring out at the road (even though there are no longer any cars left to be seen), Blaine stops entirely, tilting his head back to finish off the last of his Gatorade. It's absolutely craven and horrible of him, but he can't face this the way he thought he could, can't deal with the idea that Kurt might genuinely (and understandably) hate him now.

When he finally manages to look again, Kurt has seen him, and is giving him that shy, strained little smile. The relief that surges through Blaine's body at that moment is almost enough to knock him off his balance. But at least he can move again, walking towards Kurt like he never tried to run away at all.

"Hey," Kurt says. His voice is a little thick; he's been crying again. "I was wondering if you were around."

"Just out for a run," Blaine says, giving in to the urge to drape his arm around Kurt's shoulders. He's sweaty and flushed and probably not too terribly attractive right now, his legs and face chapped by the wind and his hair completely ruined. But Kurt doesn't pull back or even make a comment; it's entirely possible that, with everything else on his mind right now, he hasn't even noticed.

"How's your foot?" Kurt asks, as Blaine steers him back towards the building. It's not a serious question; in fact, it's the kind of question that people ask when they're trying to avoid serious questions. But then, after the month Kurt's had, he's got every right to want some time off from heavy conversation, and Blaine's not about to deny him that.

"It's fine," he says instead, ushering Kurt up the first few steps. A crowd of students dashes past them, out for a quick game of rugby before dinner, and Kurt blanches a little bit, shrugging Blaine's arm off reflexively. Blaine keeps talking, trying to pretend that he hasn't noticed. "It's funny, really. Sometimes, I almost feel like... Like as soon as I take the next step, I'm going to feel it snap again, and the whole thing's just going to... I don't know. Like I forget that I'm actually okay now, that I don't have to be scared anymore. Not as much as I used to, but..." Kurt is staring at him, with the strangest look on his face, and if Blaine wanted to pretend that the incident with Kurt flinching in terror at a group of jocks coming towards them didn't happen, then he's just failed utterly. "Um. But it's fine, really. Did you need any help settling in? I'm not actually that great at decorating, but I can unpack a box with the best of them."

Kurt smiles again, and finally continues on his way up the stairs. Blaine follows after him. "Thanks, but no. Apparently I'm something of a terror when I'm decorating, and I'm not sure I want you to see that side of me just yet. But thank you. For offering."

It's a little disappointing, particularly since Blaine's urge to step in and guide Kurt through every step of the whole day has resurfaced with a vengeance, but he ruthlessly stuffs those feelings down. Coming to Dalton, leaving everything familiar behind and stepping into this world of blue jackets and marble staircases, can be overwhelming. If Kurt needs space, he needs space. No big deal. Blaine can cope. "Anytime," he says. He really needs to find a better word; sometimes it seems like that's the only thing he ever says when Kurt's around.

The two of them split up at the top of the stairs, headed for rooms at the opposite ends of the building. Blaine makes it exactly two steps before stopping and turning around. "Hey, Kurt?"

Kurt turns around. His shoulders are slumped and he still looks so lost; it breaks Blaine's heart a little bit.

"I told a few of the Warblers that you were transferring in... well, I told Wes and David, but then David kind of..." He shrugs, and Kurt offers him the barest sliver of a smile. "Anyway, I know... _we_ know that it's probably pretty awkward timing, since we're going up against your old glee club for Sectionals in a week, but if you did want to join up, either right now or afterwards, I'm sure everyone would love to have you. If it wouldn't be too weird for you, that is. We'd understand if it is."

Kurt's smile actually widens, slightly. "I'd like that," he says. "Also, I've been told by no less than five of my former teammates that if I don't join the Warblers as soon as I get the chance, they'll do unspeakable things to my wardrobe. So, really, I've got no choice."

"Great," Blaine says, before realizing just how terrible that sounded. He decides to keep going anyway. "A few of us usually head down to the cafeteria together on Sunday nights, sort of a family supper thing. If you wanted to join us... I could introduce you to some people, maybe give you a chance to get to know them a little bit."

"Sure," Kurt says, although he looks a little bit uncomfortable at the thought.

Still, this is all going so much better than Blaine had dared to think it would. "I'll text you when I'm about to head down," he offers. "And then you can let me know what your room number is, and I'll come pick you up."

Kurt nods at him. Still smiling. It makes Blaine all kinds of unreasonably hopeful. "I'll see you then," he says, and turns away, back down the hall to his own room.

Kurt's room. At Dalton. Where he _lives_.

Blaine heads off to his room with a little bit of a skip to his step. The Warblers will love Kurt, and it'll be good for him to have something he can carry with him from his old school, something familiar in an otherwise totally alien environment. For the first time in a long time, Blaine is absolutely certain that something is going to work out exactly the way that he wants it to.

*

"I'm going to miss you, Pavi," Blaine says, staring sadly at the cage resting on the edge of his desk. "But I just can't do this."

Pavarotti fluffs his feathers, flutters his wings, and settles more comfortably on his perch without so much as a cheep.

Blaine sighs, leaning back into his desk chair. At least when he was still stuck in the aircast, he had an excuse. But he's back in normal shoes now, mostly healed, and there's no reason for him to still be struggling with this. But he is. It doesn't matter how hard he tries at rehearsal, how many hours he spends in his room, humming under his breath and trying to work it out -- _step-touch step-touch and turn, turn, to the left and snap, snap_ \-- he can't seem to get it. He's not a dancer. He never will be.

And then there's his _singing_ , and...

"I can't do it," he says, again, and wishes he could go out for a run instead of sitting here, resting his still-fragile foot, and talking to a bird.

"Did you want some advice?" Wes asks. Blaine feels his face getting hot as he turns to look at the door to his room. The open door to his room. Where the heir apparent to the Warblers' senior council is standing, one eyebrow raised. "Pavarotti's a great listener and all, but he's not much for actually talking. Even when he isn't molting."

"Sure," Blaine says, staring down at his hands. "Why not?"

Wes strolls in, hands folded casually behind his back. It hurts sometimes, how easily Wes fits in here. It hurts because Blaine's pretty sure he'll never be able to match that level of comfort, no matter how hard he tries. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you're trying too hard?" Wes asks.

When Blaine looks up, Wes isn't even facing him. He's staring at the poster of Steve Prefontaine on Blaine's wall, like he's learning something really valuable from it. For some reason, it pisses Blaine off. "So, what, I should just stop trying at all?" he snaps, and goes back to staring at his hands.

"That's not what I said," Wes says. He doesn't even sound annoyed. "You know, Prefontaine was a great runner, but I don't know how long his career would have actually lasted. Look at what happened to Alberto Salazar. Same tendency to push the pace early, same desire to lead all the way through, and he burned out before he turned twenty-seven. There's something to be said for taking it easy and drafting off the leaders, letting yourself get comfortable before you start to push for more. If nothing else, it'll save you a lot of trips to the hospital."

Blaine looks, almost guiltily, at his foot. "I... didn't know you were a runner," he says.

Wes finally turns around, grinning at him. "Not much of one, but I like to get nerdy about it every now and then," he says. "Regardless of what David may have told you, I'm not a harmonizing robot. I do have interests beyond singing and gavels." He sighs, resting his hand on Blaine's shoulder. "I know that you're driven," he says, quietly. "And I appreciate that. Believe me, we all appreciate that. But you're pushing way too hard right now, Blaine, and you're going to burn out before you ever get a chance to be really great. Ease off for a bit, at least until you've found your pace. Don't wear yourself out before the race has even started. Okay?"

"Okay," Blaine says, quietly.

The hand on Blaine's shoulder squeezes gently, then lets go. "First mile's always the hardest, Blaine," Wes says, smiling. "It'll get easier. Not perfect, maybe, but definitely easier. Just be patient." Before Blaine can reply, Wes glides easily out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Blaine stares at the door for a few seconds, then looks over at the poster of Prefontaine, then, finally, lets his eyes settle on Pavarotti's cage. "I guess you're stuck with me a little longer," he says.

Pavarotti chirps happily back at him.

*

Kurt opens the door just as Blaine's about to start knocking again. He stares for a few seconds. "Oh my God, your hair," he says, finally.

Blaine laughs, even as he reaches up to check how bad the damage is. There isn't even a bit of stiffness left, and his fingers almost get stuck in the tangled, curly mess that the wind has left behind. "Sorry," he says. "I was out running."

"Really?" Kurt asks, eyebrow up. "And here I thought you were just trying to bring orange safety vests back into fashion."

"There's a reason why I feel more comfortable in uniforms," Blaine says, still grinning. "Can I come in? If I take my shoes off?"

Kurt holds the door open a little bit wider in silent invitation, waiting as Blaine bends down to unlace his Nikes before slipping them off. "Orange safety vests and leggings," he observes, as Blaine slips past him and into the room. "I'm not sure if I'm impressed or appalled."

"It's all in how you accessorize," Blaine says, brandishing his flashlight. “ _This_ is so I can see where I’m going. Also, so cars can see me from further away.” He tucks the flashlight into an empty pocket and produces his cellphone and pepper spray. “And this,” he says, holding up the phone, “is in case I get hurt or there’s muggers or just need to say something really important to my insanely overprotective sister.”

Kurt nods, obviously amused. “And the pepper spray?”

“Muggers, again,” Blaine says. “Also, aggressive dogs. Lots of aggressive dogs in Westerville.”

“Of course. Aggressive dogs.” Kurt lets out a little laugh. “And here I thought the only appropriate accessories for running in the freezing rain would be a hat and gloves.”

Blaine shrugs, stuffing everything back in his pockets. “You don’t really need a hat when you’ve got this much hair,” he says, running his fingers through the curls to make them stand out that much more. It makes Kurt grin a little bit wider, which is the point. Except that Blaine starts staring at him again, which is kind of not the point. He quickly turns away, taking the opportunity to look around Kurt's space for the first time.

It's... immaculate is the best word Blaine can think of. Immaculate and minimalistic, all shades of white and gray. The only color (apart from the blonde wood of the school-supplied furniture) comes from the cluster of pictures attached to a whiteboard above Kurt's desk. Blaine only recognizes himself and Mercedes, but there's something reassuring about seeing all those strangers, knowing that Kurt had -- _has_ \-- so many other friends back at McKinley. One photo, a snapshot of a group of cheerleaders standing together, catches Blaine's attention. "You were a cheerleader?" he asks. His fingers itch to pull the photo down and look at it more closely, but he waits until Kurt removes it himself and passes it over to him.

"That was right after we won Nationals," he says, a soft, fond little smile playing over his face. "And right before Santana pantsed Brittany. Thankfully, it was on a tape delay and they managed to edit it out before the competition actually aired; the FCC would have gone nuclear."

The look of pure joy on Kurt's face in the picture is both captivating and depressing; Blaine has never seen him look quite that happy, with no shadows marring it. "So," he says, nudging Kurt with his shoulder. "You were a cheerleader and your team won Nationals."

"It was brutal," Kurt says, absently. "I had to do a fifteen-minute medley of Celine Dion's greatest hits. In French. Fortunately, I was taking French at the time, or all that accent work would have been wasted."

"Wow," Blaine says. "I take back everything I said about you trying too hard. Clearly, Andrew Lloyd Webber is a walk in the park compared to fifteen minutes of Celine Dion."

Kurt stiffens, carefully taking the picture from Blaine's suddenly nerveless fingers, and yes, that really was the worst possible thing Blaine could have said. He should probably just let Wes handle the advice-giving duties from now on, because he is lousy at this.

He reaches out to touch Kurt's shoulder as Kurt restores the picture to its place on the whiteboard. "Hey," he says, quietly. "Remember when I told you that you shouldn't listen to me, and that I really only know what I'm saying about half the time, and that I'm actually pretty stupid?"

It takes a second, but then Kurt's posture relaxes. He turns, giving Blaine a faint smile. "For what it's worth, you weren't completely wrong," Kurt says. He walks over to the bed, sits on it with his legs primly crossed. Blaine hurries to sit down next to him. "I should have known better than to take advice from someone who's actually seriously thought about what songs she'd like played at her funeral."

Blaine blinks at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"One of the girls from New Directions," Kurt says, waving a hand dismissively. "If you think _I'm_ dramatic..." He shakes his head. "But she knows how to kill a ballad, and I thought..."

"I guess I just don't see why you needed advice at all," Blaine says. Their shoulders brush again. "You've got an amazing voice, Kurt. And maybe your song choices aren't _quite_ in line with the whole male a capella, eight-part-harmony thing yet, but..." He shrugs. "You'll figure it out. You've just got to... pace yourself, a little bit. Draft off the leaders, you know?"

Kurt shakes his head, but he's still smiling. "I actually don't know, but I'm going to guess that you're going for some kind of a running metaphor." He eyes Blaine's legs for just a second before lifting his head up to stare at the far wall.

Blaine laughs a little, feeling absurdly self-conscious. In retrospect, he should have put some warmups on before barging into Kurt's room like this. Compression tights don't exactly leave much up to the imagination. "It sounded better when Wes said it."

"And when did Wes say it?" Kurt asks. It occurs to Blaine, then, that Kurt doesn't really know how similar their paths have been, how much Blaine had to struggle to make a place for himself at Dalton, the same way that Kurt is struggling now. And he never will know, unless Blaine actually tells him.

So.

"Last year," Blaine says. "Right when I'd made up my mind to quit the Warblers." Kurt's jaw drops; Blaine gently pushes it shut again, careful not to laugh at him. "Seriously, Kurt, you have no idea how bad I was when I started. I had no idea how to blend in with everyone else's voices, I couldn't dance at all... I didn't even get asked to audition for a solo until this year, and even then, it was under the condition that I let someone else choose the song. You may not realize it, but you are so far ahead of the pack that it isn't even funny."

"It doesn't feel like it," Kurt says, quietly. "Not right now."

Blaine lets himself lean in a little bit, lets their shoulders brush together. "Can I make one more running metaphor?" he asks.

Kurt shrugs. "I suppose I'll allow it," he says. "Since you've dressed up for it and everything."

"The first mile is always the hardest," Blaine says. "You just have to push through it. Once you find your pace, it gets so much easier. I mean, not perfect -- it's never really perfect. But it'll get better, Kurt, I promise you."

"You sound like a motivational poster," Kurt says, but he's smiling even as he complains. "But I suppose you might have a point. Maybe."

Blaine leans into him more heavily, and Kurt squeaks, clutching the mattress to keep himself upright. "Thank you for the resounding vote of confidence," he says, before pushing himself up to standing. He needs to stretch -- Cassidy will _know_ if he doesn't, and then she'll yell at him, and it's not worth the grief. Besides, he's pretty sure that if he stays in this room for another minute, he'll say something stupid again and undo any progress he's made. "I'll see you at breakfast?"

"Of course. Skipping breakfast is death." Blaine makes sure that Kurt's still smiling before he turns to leave the room. He's just reaching out for the doorknob when Kurt's voice stops him. "Blaine? Can I ask you a question?"

"Anytime," Blaine says, immediately turning around. "What is it?"

"The first mile," Kurt says, his eyes anxiously searching Blaine's face. "How do I know when I've passed it?"

Blaine smiles at him. "You'll know," he says. "I promise you. You'll know."

*

It's been almost six months since he's run so much as a step.

He's really starting to think that today wasn't a good day for him to try it out again.

It's not that his foot hurts, because it doesn't. Or he doesn't think that it does, anyway -- his brain's stuck in this weird feedback loop where he expects his foot to hurt, so he's kind of imagining that it hurts, but it's this dull, distant thing, like an echo, and he's pretty sure that it's not real. It's just... it's the fear that it _will_ hurt at some point, that he'll plant his foot to push off into the next stride and feel that pop again, the splintering, the wrongness of it all. That he will never be able to run again.

He realizes, of course, that if he stops now, he almost certainly won't run again. That if he lets fear gain a foothold, it will start to take over; it will be too easy to quit the next time, too hard to keep going, and he will never run more than a few steps before letting his doubt grind him to a halt. So he keeps pushing, even though his heart rate is all out of sync with the amount of effort he's actually putting in, and his breathing is too hard and all wrong, and his legs are heavy, his steps clumsy, his entire body somehow foreign and strange.

He never, ever thought that dancing would feel more natural to him than running. But he's getting it now, really getting it. David actually complimented him the other day, which was pretty incredible since David's the only one of them who's got anything close to natural grace, and Blaine felt pretty good about that. Wes hasn't been quite so effusive (he usually isn't), but Blaine's seen the quiet little smile he gets when one of the Warblers nails a solo or a difficult harmony line or even just really rocks the whole _side-step side-step touch-and-turn-and-touch-and-turn and sway, sway_ moves that are their stock-in-trade. He's seen that smile directed at him. And sometimes, it's like he's never lost anything at all. Like he's still cruising along down the rain-damp streets of Columbus, in the quiet before the world really wakes up and starts moving, alone and at peace and...

Blaine looks up, looks around, and realizes that he has actually passed his designated one-mile turning point, and his breathing has smoothed out, his heart has slowed down, and his legs feel a million times stronger than they did when he started. He is running. He is really, truly, running.

He smiles.

*

There is a moment during their sectionals performance when it all shifts.

Kurt's stiff for most of "Hey, Soul Sister," not necessarily unhappy, but definitely really nervous. He misses a few steps, almost runs into David's back at one point, and Blaine knows he can do better than that, but it's hard to blame him. Especially with his old choir sitting right there in the center, watching. And yeah, most of them are smiling (at least when they're not miming at Kurt to smile and move left and move right and otherwise totally messing with his concentration in an attempt to out-helpful each other), but the dude with the mohawk does _not_ look happy, and the group's director is sitting off to the side with a stone face that makes even Blaine feel a little bit shaky. Which, really, kind of puts a damper on any efforts by the rest of the New Directions to get Kurt to relax.

But then, somehow, it just seems to click. Blaine can feel the moment when it happens, the Warblers' voices swelling to a crescendo behind him, splitting off into some pretty brilliant harmonies (Wes has really outdone himself with this arrangement), and Kurt's voice is perfectly in line with everyone else's, not too loud, not too soft, but just right. When the group moves back to center for the final chorus, there's a spring in Kurt's stride, almost a skip, and the next time Blaine looks back over his shoulder, Kurt and David are grinning at each other. Behind them, Wes is smiling, that small, quiet smile of approval. And suddenly everything is easy, everything makes sense.

It doesn't really hurt that, when the song is over, Mercedes is among the first to leap to her feet, bringing the rest of Kurt's old glee club with her. That doesn't hurt at all. Especially not when it makes Kurt smile like that.

This is the moment when Blaine should say something, about the first mile, about how much better things are going to be from here on in. Not perfect, not necessarily, but better. But they're on stage, and it's time to move into the next number, and he'd probably get it wrong anyway, so he settles for snagging Kurt's hand and giving it a quick squeeze as they shift into position for their next number. And Kurt turns that brilliant smile on him for a second, and it doesn't matter that Blaine can't say anything.

Kurt already knows, just like Blaine promised he would.

Blaine takes a deep breath, and lets the rhythm of the song (like the rhythm of footsteps on pavement, like the rhythm of his heart) take over. And for a few more minutes, he's at home.


End file.
